


Eccedentesiast; or, five times Steve Rogers doesn’t challenge Bucky Barnes' Sad Smile™, and one that he does

by velleities



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America: The First Avenger, M/M, Mention of Infinity War, Mutual Pining, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers: Infinity War, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, There are other characters in here too but their roles are very minor, kinda hurt/comfort, minor period-typical homophobia, some domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-24 16:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8379385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velleities/pseuds/velleities
Summary: Bucky Barnes is and has always been the king of Sad Smiles. After years of pretending not to notice, Steve finally decides to address it.5+1 times spanning from the pre-serum years to after the infinity war.





	

**Author's Note:**

> yes, "eccedentesiast" is an anachronism. just bear with me, please? for the fic's sake? 
> 
> as always, a million thanks to [curiositykilled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/works/) for the beta-reading <3

 

 Steve knows Bucky’s smiles like the back of his hand. He knows Bucky’s smile is easy, doting, generous. He knows Bucky’s charming smile, his polite smile, his commiserating smile; he knows his smirk, his grin, he knows how to trace irony in the curve of his lips.

 He also knows the fake smile, the one Bucky plasters on his face to act strong, the one he uses to conceal his sadness. It’s a faux smile; the ghost of a smile; it’s a joke, really.

 He’s known it since Bucky was twelve and used it on his younger sister. Little Becca wouldn’t stop stomping and choking on her tears over a doll they absolutely could not afford. Bucky had fake smiled and promised that Santa would get it for her come Christmas. To Steve’s surprise, Becca had bought it; not the Santa part – that was fine, she’d buy that, she was still a child; she had bought _the smile_. Still, Steve had told himself, _still_ , she was young and innocent; she could be excused.

 A few weeks after, Bucky had pulled the same smile on him, Steve, when Steve was coughing his lungs out and the local priest insisted on teaching his nearest and dearest the last rites.

 Steve didn’t get it: how did Bucky believe people would buy that smile as genuine – that people wouldn’t catch the way his eyes didn’t crinkle at the edges like usual, that he wasn’t scrunching his nose, that his mouth couldn’t actually sustain the pretense and quirked downwards the minute they turned away?

 Then again, maybe people really _didn’t_ catch any of that, and Steve was just too familiar with Bucky, too accustomed to his mannerisms to not notice.

 It made Steve sad, that smile. He didn’t like thinking of it as a “fake smile” – that sounded bad, a lie, and this wasn’t its intention. So Steve termed it “the sad smile.”

 Not to Bucky’s face, of course.

 He’d never addressed it; never challenged it. Bucky is trying to be strong and Steve respects that.

 He doesn’t respect Bucky _right now_ though; right now, he wants to scream at him until he shuts his mouth and stops with the damn preaching.

 Bucky has just caught Steve getting beat up in an alley in the middle of the night. Predictably, he’s none too appreciative.

 “You’ve a goddamn death wish, Steve? The hell is wrong with you?” Bucky yells, his face furious. He’s getting paler by the second; blood is smeared under his nose and on his upper lip, more blood is making its way down the side of his head from an angry cut on his forehead. “That was Jim Dodger, _do you get that_? Do you get what that _means_?”

 That he’s strong, Steve thinks; that’s what that means; that he’s been training all his life to be the perfect soldier – to be everything that Steve isn’t allowed to be.

 Steve doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Jim Dodger’s physical leads. An asshole is an asshole is an asshole.

 “We’re not _kids_ anymore,” Bucky is shouting with all his nineteen years of wisdom. “The people you pick fights with? They might be carryin’ knives, guns, they might be out to kill. Do you _get_ that?” He licks his lips and grimaces when he tastes blood.

 “You shouldn’t even be here,” Steve says stubbornly. “I didn’t ask for help.”

 “Of course you didn’, God forbid you ever do!” Bucky scoffs, his arms wide open in frustration. “Look what he did to _me_!” He heaves a sigh and rubs his eyes. “He could’ve hurt you a lot, Steve.”

 Steve turns away, his face mulish.

 “But you just can’t mind your own business,” Bucky spats.

 “Looks like I can’t,” Steve says petulantly. “And you shouldn’t’ve been here.”

 Bucky frowns, furious. He runs his hands through his rumpled hair, then huffs. “Mark my words, I ain't gonna have you trudging back home bleedin’ half to death when we live together,” he says eventually. “I’ll lock you outside, like a stray cat; I don’t give a damn.”

 They’ve talked about getting a house together ever since they were fourteen or fifteen; Bucky has been threatening to lock him out like a stray cat for exactly as long. The threat isn’t much of a threat anymore.

 Steve fishes his pockets for a handkerchief. “Come ‘ere,” he says gruffly. He hates that Bucky got hurt on his account. This is his way of making up for it.

 “I’ll clean up at home,” Bucky says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He worries the inside of his lip, then mumbles, “Dammit, Steve. Sometimes, I swear –”

 “D’you wanna go dancing?” Steve blurts out.

 It’s a random thing to say, Steve knows this, but he’s feeling a little guilty, and he wants to end this fight sooner rather than later – and Bucky loves dancing. It’s a peace offering.

 Bucky blinks, visibly startled. He knows Steve hates dancing. _Everyone_ knows Steve hates dancing. No dame cares to be his partner and, honestly, four quick spins on the dance floor leave him wheezing and gasping for air.

 “Are you butterin’ me up?” Bucky asks, eyes narrowed.

 “I’m just sayin’–” Steve shrugs – “We could do with some fun. All that’s been talked about lately is death and money and – and – I don’t know. We can do with a drink.”

 Bucky licks his lips. “Okay. We can do that.”

 Later, when Bucky’s had one too many drinks, and he’s flushed and giggling and twirling girls on the dance floor, he grabs Steve’s hand and drags him for a spin. Steve has had his own share of drinks and is too mellow to put up a fight. He lets himself be spun around and dragged along and even grins when Bucky raucously praises his admittedly lame moves.

 They trudge back home through darkened streets and empty alleyways. Their feet hurt, their necks and shoulders ache and their heads are spinning slightly. As they walk, their hands brush together and Bucky interlocks his index finger with Steve’s.

 “I just don’ wan’ you gettin’ hurt is all,” he says softly.

 Steve’s eyes dart to the cut on Bucky’s forehead. “I won’t be dyin’ in a street fight, Buck, I promise you that,” he replies and – well.

 Bucky smiles his sad smile.

 Steve should’ve seen that coming.

 “Sure you won’t, pal,” he whispers and holds Steve’s hand in his, their fingers intertwining.

 Steve can guess what’s behind that smile, and he doesn’t care to discuss it. He doesn’t care to explain, yet again, why it’s important for him to stand up to injustice, how desperately he wants to fight the good fight and how ironic it is that nature or God, the universe or whoever saw befitting to give _him_ , of all people, all these physical limitations – _him_ , who has an ever-burning fire inside his chest, who would single-handedly take on every bully, every bastard, if his body would allow. Hell, he still _does_ that, and his body _doesn’t_ allow.

 Maybe Bucky needs some reassurance; he looks small, younger than he is; his eyes are sparkling in the dark, and maybe he needs Steve to lie, to tell him that he’ll be more careful, more considerate.

 Steve doesn’t care to do that either. It is what it is. Instead, he presses Bucky’s thumb, strokes his knuckles, and hopes that this is comfort enough.

 Bucky crashes at Steve’s place. The house is quiet, dark – Mrs. Rogers has been assigned the night shift. Steve collapses on his bed and Bucky huddles against him, nuzzles the back of his neck, tangles his legs with Steve’s. He falls asleep in seconds and Steve rolls over, chancing a glance at him. His face is soft, peaceful, and Steve’s eyes are once again drawn to the red mark on his forehead, courtesy of Jim Dodger, courtesy of Steve Rogers.

 Steve traces it with his finger.

 He’s made peace with it, really – his own mortality. He’s been fated to die from one thing or another ever since he came out of the womb, each escape just a postponement of the inevitable. He might as well make the most of the time he has – make something good with it; draw – preserve – what is beautiful in the world and try to alleviate what isn’t.

 It’s everyone else’s mortality he has issues with. No one else is supposed to die before him and certainly not _because_ of him. Bucky’s newly acquired scar reminds him of that possibility. And Bucky _is_ right, they’ve grown up now, the stakes are higher and –

 He suppresses a groan as he silently promises to pick his fights more carefully. Not for himself – when it comes to the good fight, he’ll always jump in headfirst. He’s willing to sacrifice himself for everyone, anyone. He’s only willing to live for Bucky.

 He wonders if he’ll ever feel like this for anyone else.

 Bucky sighs in his sleep and Steve takes his hand, warm and rough and alive, and cradles it against his side.

 Fuck mortality. He’s not prepared for this; never will be.

 Sarah Rogers’ death hits him pretty hard. Bucky’s there to take the fall with him. Steve won’t allow it at first, of course, because he’s Steve, and Bucky knows this and he’s being patient. Steve refuses to show even a smidge of his grief, refuses to let himself fall apart, refuses, just refuses.

 Bucky remains patient, brushes away Steve’s brusqueness, responds with kindness to his defensiveness, with lightheartedness to his broodiness. When Steve eventually breaks down on the front steps of his house in the middle of the afternoon, Bucky consoles him as Steve cries into his shoulder and clutches at his shirt, trembling uncontrollably under Bucky’s arms. He cries until he gets an asthma attack and then, embarrassed, he tries to shove Bucky away to regain some of his wounded pride. Bucky smacks him upside the neck and guides him towards steady, even breaths.

 Steve starts teaching drawing lessons to young ladies and Bucky gets a job at the docks. They manage to rent a small, decrepit flat at the other side of the city, with wooden floors that are perpetually musty and a tub that’s half-cracked, a ceiling that occasionally leaks and cupboards that threaten to collapse on their heads; it’s _their_ house, and they cherish it.

 On their first night there, they put the couch cushions on the floor and make a bed out of them, just this once, for old times’ sake.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 Bucky hollers, “Let’s hear it for Captain America!” and suddenly every soldier that has followed Steve to the camp starts applauding.

 Bucky responds to Steve’s bewildered look with a cheeky shrug and a quick smile.

 Steve knows enough to easily recognize it as a sad smile, sees the troubled frown that follows it out of the corner of his eye, and – well.  He’s ashamed to admit it, but he doesn’t want to dwell on that right now; he’s too overwhelmed with pride and joy to dwell on something sad. He’s ashamed to admit it, so he turns the other way, pushes the thought away. People are slapping his back and singing his praises. Steve feels good for himself.

 He thinks about it later, during the endless hours of debriefing and questioning, and wonders about it. All the possibilities he can think of are too depressing, and the day suddenly feels too long, and he just wants to get it over with so he can find Bucky, _be_ with Bucky. Despite the long trek home, they haven’t really talked much; there wasn’t much time for talking between the exhaustion and constant vigilance.

 It’s late in the evening when Steve finally manages to disentangle himself from Colonel Phillips, excuse himself from Peggy, and go in search of Bucky. He finds him in the medical tent, folding up clean linen while the doctor puts away gauges and medicinal bottles.

 “Hey,” Steve says.

 Bucky grins at him, his face brightening up. Steve reflexively returns the smile.

 “You okay?” he asks, glancing at the doctor.

 “I’m fine,” Bucky responds. Probably. He doesn’t know. Something was done to him in Austria. He doesn’t _know_. He folds the last pillowcase swiftly, neatly, and keeps silent.

 “He’s fine. He’s just a little dehydrated, a little malnourished, but aren’t we all,” the doctor says dismissively. “Came here for a checkup, stayed to help out with the injured.”

 Bucky grins. “Don’t let ‘em fool you, doc, they’re all just a bunch of crybabies. Need someone to hold their hand.”

 “And someone who knows how to dab at bloody wounds and disinfect them and stitch ‘em up, God bless you,” the doctor says tiredly.

 “Had a lot of practice,” Bucky mutters, glancing pointedly at Steve.

 “I’m sure you did,” the doctor says with a weary sigh. “Well –” he nods his head – “good night Sergeant, Captain.”

 When the doctor leaves, Bucky shifts and Steve hovers, an awkward silence settling between them.

 Steve knows he wants to say _something_ ; it’s just that he wants to make sure – what? It’s not that he needs anyone’s approval, and it’s been long enough that he’s accepted the changes in his body by now, the changes that came with the serum; but he wants _something_ from Bucky. Maybe the assurance that he still recognizes him, still cares for him, still sees _him_ and not some stranger with Steve’s name. He wants to make sure that Bucky is still his best friend, his best – everything, anything.

 Bucky also wants to say something, but it’s less complicated, more along the less-than-eloquent lines of _‘Holy shit, it’s beautiful.’_

 And he doesn’t mean Steve’s new height, his new muscles or strength. They, too, are beautiful, of course they are. But when it comes to Steve, Bucky has seen his soul, and that’s what he always sees in him, whether Steve is short and puny, tall and big, or whatever else he might be in the future. It’s simple, really – Steve is always beautiful because his soul is beautiful.

 No, what Bucky deems beautiful right now is the way these men, everyone in the camp, look up to Steve; the way that now, finally, everyone in the world sees what Bucky has always seen – Steve the hero, Steve the fighter, Steve the protector.

 It’s so damn beautiful.

 And it’s so damn heartbreaking. Steve’s now a moving target, and Bucky can’t shelter him from the world anymore – although deep inside, he knows that if he ever thought he could truly shelter Steve and his bullheadedness from anything, he was deluding himself. Still, everything is too big now, too vast, and it’s not just the two of them anymore, it’s the soldiers and the Nazis and the world – and it’s too much. There’s a part of Bucky that feels redundant. Steve now has the world at his feet, can take care of himself, can surround himself with anyone he damn well pleases – as well he should – and maybe he won’t need Bucky anymore; maybe Bucky won’t survive the competition. But that part is ugly and selfish, and Bucky shoves it away.

 It’s Bucky that speaks up first.

 “Y’know how I said you’re amazin’? When you were gettin’ us back here?”

 “Mmhm –” Steve nods. “But you were half dazed by lack of sleep at that point, so I’m not takin’ it too personally.”

 Bucky smiles. “Just don’t let it get in your head is all.” He sits on the bed. “Don’t let anythin’ anyone says get in your head. ‘Cause next thing you know, you’ll be more reckless than usual an’ – well. It’s the war. ‘S a scary world.”

 Steve doesn’t argue – he knows that, and Bucky knows it much better than him anyway.

 “It’s good you’re here to watch my back then,” he says, though he immediately regrets it; he doesn’t actually know if Bucky plans to stick around. Hell, he doesn’t even know if the higher-ups plan to keep _him_ – Steve – around.

 But Bucky doesn’t look bothered, and Steve is still trying to figure out the source of that sad smile.

 He chances, “Ain’t this an improvement then?” and gestures at his body.

 Bucky shrugs. “You’re still the same hissy little imp to me.”

 This is just about what Steve wants to hear. A weight lifts from his shoulders and he sits next to Bucky, the bed creaking under their combined weight.

 “What happened to our place?” Bucky asks suddenly.

 “It’s fine,” Steve assures. “Gave the keys to your ma. Told her to keep an eye on it.”

 “Was that before or after the serum?” Bucky asks.

 “Before,” Steve says, grinning. “But I visited, after.”

 Bucky nods, his gaze distant. “How’re they?”

 “Makin’ ends meet,” Steve says. “Becca near fainted when she saw me. The lil’ ones ooh-ed and aah-ed and I told ‘em all I did was eat my veggies. Your ma was so pleased that she gave me a whole pie.”

 Bucky snorts and shakes his head. “Punk.”

 He moves forward to engulf Steve into a big, squeezing hug, warm and affectionate.

 Steve finds that Bucky smells like Bucky, and Bucky feels like Bucky, and a piece of him that he didn’t know was missing falls into place.

 He clings to that hug and Bucky scoots in closer. He tries to pull back after a few seconds, but Steve won’t let go. Bucky rests his head on Steve’s shoulder in resignation, and wonders what they are doing, wonders if these nights of almosts, of could’ve beens will ever catch up to them and bite them in the ass – and if they do, he wonders if they’ll be able to stop before it gets out of hand, before it gets too much for them to ever stop.

 But right now, Steve’s shoulder is exceptionally solid and soft and real; Bucky closes his eyes and feels like home.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 Steve plops himself down on the ground with a grunt. Bucky spares him a glance and a quick smile, then turns to gaze at the clear night sky. The moon, nearly full, casts an eerie silver glow over the meadows below.

 “It’s peaceful out here,” Steve says.

 “Yeah; almost makes you forget all the rest.” Bucky takes a swing from a bottle he’s propping against his leg; probably whiskey; probably Morita’s. “Almost.”

 “Don’t get your dumb ass drunk,” Steve teases, elbows resting on his knees. “Fellas will never forgive you if you wake ‘em up with your horrible singin’.”

 Bucky laughs, shaking his head sheepishly. It’s a mirthless, hollow sound, but he disguises it expertly behind a fake cough.

 Steve doesn’t know that Bucky is and has been completely sober ever since he was captured in Azzano. He has tried getting drunk – repeatedly, more times than he cares to count – ever since that night out at a fancy bar in London over a year ago, when he realized that he couldn’t. He still can’t. It worries him slightly.

 Steve is studying him openly, taking in the troubled furrow of his brow, the hard lines around his mouth, the unconscious clench of his jaw. “You holdin’ up alright?” he asks.

 “Of course.”

 Bucky grins and it’s infectious; Steve finds himself grinning back, even though he’s not convinced that Bucky is being honest.

 He’s been having nightmares, Steve knows that much. He moans and cries in his sleep, and Dugan or Jones or Steve himself will shake him awake, whispering urgent words, trying to tether him to the present. The dark circles have taken up permanent residency under his eyes, but Bucky doesn’t care to discuss it.

 Bucky doesn’t care to discuss a lot of things, so Steve doesn’t  know the half of it, really: after Austria, Bucky doesn’t _need_ as much sleep, just as he can’t get drunk, just as his eyesight is a little too sharp, his injuries heal a little too fast, and his exhaustion isn’t physical at all. If he looks worn out, it’s only because he’s tired of the nightmares and of trying to stave off unnerving thoughts of what might be happening to him, what might have happened to him in that dingy, dark lab. If he doesn’t, if he tries to let someone in, he’s deathly afraid that he might start screaming –no, he _will_ start screaming and he will never, ever stop.

 So he keeps quiet, swallowing the words inside. No one has to know. Steve doesn’t have to know.

 And Steve _doesn’t_ know; what he does know is that Bucky has returned from Austria a little more morbid than before, so he’s not that surprised when Bucky says, “I keep thinkin’ I should write the letters.”

 “No, Buck,” Steve says quickly, but it’s far too soft for Bucky to have heard.

 Bucky _has_ heard.

 “Every time it’s a close call,” he says, “every time there’s a bullet just missed me or a cut feels a little too deep, I keep thinkin’, I should’ve written that letter, I should go back to the camp and write that letter.” He pauses, absently rubbing his knuckles. “I never do,” he says and looks regretful. “Last time I wrote ma when we reached London. _‘Still alive, still yours, I kiss you all, Bucky’_ ,” he recites. “But every time, I –” He bites the inside of his lip, scuffles the ground with the heel of his boot. “It’s just, if I die – they should’ve some closure.”

 He pauses and observes Steve, considering.

 “I told Carter.”

 Steve jerks back in surprise. “Told her what?”

 “That I want to write those letters, an’ if I do, I want her to deliver them, and if I don’t, I want her to write somethin’ herself. Somethin’ nice.” He runs a hand through his hair and takes a swing of whiskey.

 “You’re not gonna die, Buck,” Steve says and hates himself for saying it.

 He doesn’t _know_ is the thing, he could not possibly know, and if this were anyone else, he wouldn’t say things he can’t prove, wouldn’t say things that are out of his control. Where Bucky’s concerned though, he barely has any control, and the thought of anything happening to Bucky, _his_ Bucky, knocks the breath out of his chest and leaves him numb and nauseated.

 “Yeah, well,” Bucky says. “Here’s to that. ” He drinks again. “She’s nice though, I like her. She’s good for you.”

 “Who?” Steve asks absently, his mind still lingering on Bucky’s previous words.

 Bucky eyes him narrowly. “Carter.”

 Steve loses track of the conversation.

 “She keeps you grounded, puts you in your place,” Bucky remarks. “You need that.”

 “No, Buck – that’s you, you’re talkin’ about yourself,” Steve says, weary, frustrated at the way this conversation is going. “What’s with you tonight, you sound like you’re writin’ your own eulogy.”

 Bucky smirks lopsidedly, tracing patterns on the dirt. “I’m jus’ lookin’ out for you, Stevie.”

 “Well,” Steve retorts, “it’s _your_ goddamn voice I hear in my head every time I’m thinkin’ of doing somethin’ – somethin’ –”

 “Stupid,” Bucky supplies cheekily.

 “Bold,” Steve finishes, raising his eyebrows in a challenge.

 “Bullheaded,” Bucky corrects matter-of-fact.

 “Arguable –” Steve lowers his voice and cocks his head.

 “Reckless,” Bucky whispers and leans closer.

 “Unconventional –” Steve is staring at Bucky’s lips.

 “U –” Bucky licks his lips in anticipation.

 Steve leans in some more. The air stills.

 Bucky breathes in. Steve breathes out.

 Bucky blinks. “Unwise,” he amends, clearing his throat and pulling back, imperceptibly but noticeably. “Anyway, yeah,” he says, brushing his hair awkwardly.

 Steve is left staring at him, uncertain.

 “Keep ‘er. You’ll have a bright future together after the war.”

 “We’re not together,” Steve says evenly.

 “You will be –” Bucky is firm – “She’d be damn lucky to have you, and she’d do you good. It’s a fittin’ match.”

 He smiles the sad smile. Right on time.

 Steve’s skin feels too tight, his face too warm. He likes Peggy, but his idea of a fitting match goes back to Brooklyn and to longing looks, lingering touches, stolen moments, moments that would have been, should have been, if things were different. Maybe _can_ be, after the war. 

 Bucky’s smile has turned into a frown by now. Steve pretends not to notice; everything in Bucky’s posture screams _‘I don’t want to talk about it,’_ from the rigidity of his shoulders to the way he bows his head, avoiding eye contact, and Steve doesn’t want to push. It would lead to dogged retorts from Bucky, passionate reasoning from Steve, and eventually would just end in meaningless bickering. It would lead to _‘But if we…’_ and to _‘Drop it, it wouldn’t work,’_ to _‘But then again…’_ and to _‘Don’t be dramatic’_ ; Steve will come off as needy and Bucky will come off as callous; it certainly won’t lead to a _‘Come ‘ere, Rogers’_ and a sloppy kiss. These are just one-time things.

 Steve is too afraid to call it love, so he calls it as he sees it: best friends; partners in crime; partners in everything; platonic romance; the person who matters most; the person he wants to be with every time, all the time, in any manner or capacity that he can get, even if his world burns.

 Bucky is too afraid to call it love, so he calls it as _he_ sees it: soul mates; unconditional devotion; unquestioned affection; thoughtless hand holding and reckless kissing in the dark; a never-ending quench to lie next to each other, an unwise need to stand together in all things, through all things; the thing that cannot be.

 Bucky knows that Captain America has to end up with a nice dame. He cannot be a perpetual bachelor, forever rooming with his childhood best friend. Society won’t accept that; the people who made him what he is won’t accept that. So _he_ has to accept that eventually Steve will move on, settle in a different house, with a different person, and if he – Bucky – survives the war, he’ll just have to get used to it, because America’s symbol and pride cannot be anything but conventional, anything but traditional.

 Bucky thinks Steve knows this already, so he’s trying to spare them both.

 Steve doesn’t care for this kind of thinking; his mind is as rebellious as his heart. _He_ doesn’t have a clue; he just thinks Bucky’s gently rejecting him.

 The heavy silence is broken by Gabe Jones. He sits himself beside Bucky, jovial, relaxed, bumping Bucky’s shoulder.

 Bucky passes him the whiskey; Jones passes him a cigarette.

 Steve can’t handle casual conversation right now, so he walks off his feelings. He vows to find a way to talk to Bucky about this – in time. Not after the war, of course – sooner; when they get a respite, a break between operations. He has to know; he has to try.

 Later, when he makes his way back to them to drag them to bed, he overhears Jones drawl, “Y’know what you are, y’know –” he seems to be swaying drunkenly – “You, my friend, you are – you are an ecc- uhcc- an _eccedentesiast_!” he manages.

 Bucky lets out a bemused guffaw. “A what?!”

 “An eccedentesiast – did I stutter?  Ha, wait, I did. An eccedentesiast!” Jones insists, snatching the cigarette off Bucky’s limp hand and dragging a smoke.

 “And what the hell is _that_?” Bucky asks, his lips twitching with amusement.

 “ _That,_ ” Jones slurs wisely, “is someone who fakes a smile to hide his feelings. Of pain. Who hides. Behind… his smile.”

 So _that’s_ what it’s called, Steve thinks.

 Bucky falls silent.

 Jones puts out the cigarette and staggers upwards. “’M gonna call it a night,” he mutters. “Here, hold on to that –” he passes Bucky the bottled booze.

 Steve nods his goodnight when Jones passes him. He straightens his shoulders and walks to Bucky. He squeezes his shoulder.

 “Let’s go sleep.”

 Come morning, they will prepare to board a train carrying Armin Zola.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 The Wakandan sun shines bright and hot through the clear wall-sized windows and Steve takes a sip of his cold coffee.

 For a second, he thinks he’s closer to a certain manner of success rather than to complete catastrophe. His team is safe, recovering, the Wakandans are actually nice to them, and no one has come asking for their heads in a platter; no one knows where they are. For just one second, against his better judgment, Steve considers that things might actually be kind of okay.

 The thought lasts exactly one second.

 Bucky’s hovering at the door of what they’ve come to think of as the group’s common room. He’s absently scratching the doorframe with his fingers, staring at Steve with something suspiciously close to hesitation.

 Steve thinks, _This can’t be good._

 Bucky swallows a cough. “I’ve been talking to T’challa and I…” He stalls. “He has a cryo chamber and I think … I’m going back under, Steve.”

 Steve just stares at him.

 “I should, all things considered,” Bucky adds.

 “Is it –” Steve closes his book, clears his throat. He sits up straighter, ignoring the burning pain in his lungs, the heat that’s rising on his face, the accelerated thumping of his heart. He tries very hard to remain calm. “Is this your decision?”

 Bucky nods. “Mine. T’challa didn’t…” He presses his lips. “He’s only trying to help. He doesn’t necessarily agree.”

 Steve nods, once, twice, one too many times, and he opts for running instead of facing, because this? This he can’t face.

 “Okay,” he manages.

 He stands up, squeezes Bucky’s left shoulder as he passes by without really looking at him, and locks himself into his room for the rest of the day.

 But something’s nagging at him, and he can’t just leave things be, not with this new twist.

 A little after midnight, he finds Bucky in the living room, glued to the ridiculously large television screen. He’s been informed that’s where Bucky usually spends his nights, when everyone else is asleep.

 Steve needs answers, but the questions hit a little too close to home. He knows the only way he can carry such a discussion is by putting up walls, thick and high. He employs his best Captain America face and walks into the room.

 The television volume is set to low, but that doesn’t mean much for a super soldier’s hearing. The only light comes from the dim glow of the screen; it reflects off Bucky’s face and makes him look silvery, ethereal.

 Bucky watches Steve as he makes his way to the couch – chin up, chest out, shoulders straight, features set in grim determination. Bucky stifles a reminiscing smile.

 “Why did you lie to me in Bucharest?” Steve asks, cutting to the chase.

 Bucky blinks, thrown.

 Steve ploughs on, “You said you knew me because you’d read about me. In a museum. You lied.”

 Bucky purses his lips reluctantly and looks at the walls for answers. He rubs his face tiredly.

 “I did lie,” he agrees, his voice low and raspy.

 “I’d appreciate it if you could tell me why,” Steve says formally. “You shouldn’t mind now – not anymore; it doesn’t matter.”

 Bucky narrows his eyes. “What d’you mean it doesn’t matter?”

 “You won’t be around,” Steve explains evenly. “There’ll be no consequences, no follow-ups. Just – I just need to know the facts.”

 “I’m not dying, Steve,” Bucky says softly, his voice tinged with mirthless amusement.

 “You could have left, but you didn’t,” Steve pushes on. “I didn’t even notice you were there, not at first, but you stayed. And then you lied. Why?”

 There’s no emotion in Steve’s voice, no inflection; he’s a captain asking for a report.

 Bucky bites the inside of his lip; he shifts so that he can face Steve, but sways a little as he does so, not yet used to the missing weight of his left arm.

 “It was easier to pretend when you weren’t there,” he says slowly.

 “I’m gonna need more than that,” Steve says.

 It comes out rough, almost pissed off. He thinks for a second that kindness might get him further, that Bucky could very well up and leave, but –

 Bucky doesn’t seem to care either way.

 “I meant what I said,” he says slowly, choosing every word with care. “That it always ends in a fight. People are safer when I’m not around –” he swallows – “If it ends in a fight for _me_ , that’s all right; I can deal with that. And if it ends badly, I still can deal with that; I’m my own responsibility. But I can’t have –” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “I can’t risk anyone else. I can’t risk any more collateral damage, I can’t allow that.”

 “So you’re saying you tried to protect me?” Steve asks emotionlessly.

 “It was easy to pretend that everything I remembered –our childhood, our – our apartment, the scuffles, your sketches, our plans – ” he chuckles with nostalgia “ – it was easier to pretend they all belonged in another lifetime, that they had nothing to do with me _now_ , that I couldn’t – that they didn’t matter anymore. That I didn’t miss it or that I didn’t want it back or that I didn’t – miss you. That it didn’t matter if you weren’t around, or what you thought of me, of everything that’s happened. You coming there it – it complicated things. I couldn’t –” he shrugs, the gravity of his words making it difficult to get them out – “–seeing you, I couldn’t pretend anymore and it just – it hurt.”

 “What hurt?” Steve asks, his voice quivering just a little.

 “Seeing you –” Bucky purses his lips, his eyes kind – “all the things I pretended I didn’t need or want, they – they just hit me at once and all I could think was –” he smiles self-depreciatingly –“ _I miss you, I miss you –_ please _go away, I’m dangerous_ , _but, God, I miss you_ , over and over and _over_ –”

 He lowers his eyes and grins.

 “At least I never pretended I’m not fucked up. The thing is,” he explains, sobering up, “I didn’t think it would be that easy to turn me into the Winter Soldier again.”

 “Easy?” Steve asks. “You realize how complicated and precisely executed Zemo’s plan was.”

 “I mean, he got to me while I was held by the CIA,” Bucky points reasonably. “I didn’t see that coming. So now, anyone, at any point, can come up to me and say the words and that’s it, I’m out there trying to kill everyone I know, everyone I don’t know – just – everyone, the end. And I’m good at it. There ain’t many lost chances.”

 He is trying to explain himself; he is trying to make Steve understand. It shouldn’t matter, really, if Steve understands, if anyone understands, but it does, and Bucky hurts that he’s hurting Steve – because even if Steve won’t say it, Bucky can still tell. He knows the tell-tale signs – the set jaw, the unblinking, hard eyes, the silent treatment; he remembers; he’s spent lifetimes studying them.

 Steve sees that Bucky is trying to explain, but he’s having none of it. Maybe Bucky’s right, but Steve doesn’t think he is. Steve thinks there’s another way, there _must_ be another way. Bucky can be protected, can stay inside the palace where no one can get to him, can wear earplugs for all Steve cares – just… there _must_ be some other way. Bucky is open, willing to talk, _ready_ to talk, and Steve knows he could exploit it, ask, speak, but he’s overwhelmed with emptiness, abandonment; he doesn’t want to talk any more.

 “Thank you,” he says curtly.

 A sour expression passes over Bucky’s face, but it vanishes quickly. “You’re welcome.”

 Steve nods, the short, rough nod of the captain, and goes back to his room.

 The very next morning, they notify him that Bucky is being prepped for cryo. It is soon, too soon, and he half thinks of not saying goodbye, partly out of spite and partly because he’s afraid he might not be able to hold back the undignified pleas.

 The sane part of him prevails; he dresses himself slowly and tries to gather his composure.

 Bucky sighs.

 Heaviness has settled in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He runs his fingers over his thigh and tries to maintain a neutral expression. He is surprised to find that he’s not worried, not twitchy or scared for what’s to come, the procedure that will follow. He trusts the Wakandan doctors completely. The spotless room, their gentle touches, the extra miles they go to make him feel comfortable are soothing, safe. He’s not concerned, not threatened, not scared; what he is, is sad.  

 He’s sad because he’ll be misplaced, _again_ ; he’ll lose another time chunk of his life, _again_. He’s sad because he doesn’t see any other option, not a viable one. He’s a potential public threat, and not out of choice; he can’t allow this again and he won’t, not as long as he has his free will. There must be a solution, a cure, a recovery, and he trusts that T’challa, with all his resources, will find it – and when he does, Bucky will be free to live again. Well – free being relative. He’ll be himself; wholly himself, only himself. Again. Finally.

 Steve walks into the room, and Bucky wavers. Steve makes all of Bucky’s goodbyes harder. He’s the only thing left behind that matters; always was, still is –  Bucky suspects, always will be. He mentally shakes himself. He’s made his choice, and that’s that.

 Steve’s heart clenches when he sees the freezing chamber. He keeps his hands shoved in his pockets because they’re shaking a little too hard and he doesn’t need Bucky to see that. He blinks away the sting in his eyes.

 He doesn’t mean to, but he hears himself say, “You sure about this?”

 Mostly because _he_ isn’t. Mostly because he doesn’t want to accept it.

 “I can’t trust my own mind,” Bucky says and damn him – damn him! – he smiles the sad smile.

 Of all the things that have changed, he’s _still_ kept that sad smile – and suddenly Steve is taken back in the 30s and the 40s, in blood-stained alleyways and creaky beds and open skies, and he can’t handle this, he can’t take this. There’s static in his mind. He can’t think, and he certainly doesn’t trust himself to speak.

 Bucky can’t keep up the pretense – his mouth falls before Steve looks away. He keeps talking – “So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing.” He’s repeating himself, reiterating what he said the previous night. He’s not sure who he’s trying to console.

 Steve nods; it’s not agreement, just reflex.

 “For everybody,” Bucky adds.

 He thinks, _Don’t hate me, not now._ He thinks, _Please, try to understand._ He thinks, _It’s not just for me, I swear, this is for you, too, you can’t trust me, not like this._ He thinks, _I know you have a flare for the dramatics, but I swear, I’m not leaving you behind, not after everything you did, that’s not what this is_ – _It’s for the best, I swear._

 He attempts another sad smile, but it barely reaches his lips so he averts his eyes to the floor.

 Steve sees it, the half-assed sad smile number two. _Two in a row_ , he thinks with bitter amusement; _two for two; you outdid yourself; well done_.

 He doesn’t know how to fix _that_ sad smile. It’s not like other times, where he had a hunch, an idea, an inkling, and just chose not to speak up. This time, he’s clueless; this time, he doesn’t know what to say. Nothing he _could_ say would convince Bucky to do otherwise and he keeps replaying Peggy’s words in his mind over and over again like a mantra, _Allow Barnes the dignity of his choice_ , again and again until his ache for Bucky’s choice mingles with his ache for Peggy’s death and suddenly he can’t breathe, can’t swallow, can’t feel his heart beat.

 Steve grieves for a while.

 He avoids Wanda, because Wanda would see right through him, and Steve doesn’t want anyone to see; he avoids Clint, because Clint understands, and Steve doesn’t want to be understood; he avoids Scott, because Scott would try to cheer him up, and Steve doesn’t want to be cheered up. Sam, he doesn’t avoid, because Sam knows him too well to leave him alone for too long and too well to pester him constantly.

 Eventually, Steve bucks up, swallows down the pain, tucks away the bitterness, befriends the empty space in his heart, and goes back to business.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 Steve runs his finger over the rim of his half-filled whiskey glass, in Tony’s fully stocked, dimly lit bar, in one of Tony’s neatly decorated living rooms, at Tony’s ex-Avengers vast compound.

 He slumps his shoulders tiredly and doesn’t notice Bucky, too silent in his footsteps to ever be noticed.

 Bucky plops down on the barstool next to his; a wide, soft grin is spread across his face.

 “Do you remember that time,” Bucky says gently, “that summer, when it was too hot to stay inside and we decided to go down the pier and read _The Hobbit_ to each other?”

 Steve lets out a feeble chuckle.

 “Do you remember that we acted out the _voices_?” Bucky goes on, his eyes lighting up. “And we got so into it –”

 “Before we knew it, a bunch of little kids had gathered round to hear the story,” Steve finishes with a small smile, eyes on his glass.

 “We’d become a spectacle!” Bucky laughs. 

 Bucky’s being nice to him; Bucky wouldn’t suddenly start recounting old stories so generously, so tenderly, if he wasn’t being nice. Steve knows this.

 Bucky’s being nice to him because a few days ago, during their final face-off with Thanos and his assorted forces in the battle for the Infinity Gems, Bucky had found him half-dead, and he hadn’t taken that too well, from what Steve’s been told. From what he’s been told – by Sam, by Natasha – Bucky had screamed for help. He’d let Tony check for signs of life, too scared to dare check himself. He’d knelt there, body still, jaw slacked, a frozen expression of pure terror on his face, and when Tony had shakily declared that Steve _was_ , somehow, still alive and had to be taken to a hospital stat, Bucky had turned around and thrown up.

 They said it was space nausea.

 Bucky’s being nice to him because Steve was completely unresponsive for a full day, and then spent about two days drifting in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t remember much – only the blurry image of Bucky in various states and stances on the chair next to Steve’s bed. He’s pretty sure he once caught him braiding his own hair, utterly focused on the task, his fingers deft among the carefully separated strands; he’s pretty sure he didn’t dream that. He’s also pretty sure he caught him tracing Steve’s hands, running his fingers over the veins, caressing his knuckles and the thin muscles beneath them. He’s pretty sure he didn’t dream that either.

 He’s being nice to him because Steve almost died, and, apparently, Bucky would have none of that.

 “Hey, d’you remember,” Bucky goes on undeterred, shifting on the barstool, making himself more comfortable, “d’you remember that little bookcase you used to have?”

 “In- what, in my house? Way back when? The blue rickety one?” Steve asks, bemused.

 “Yeah, that one,” Bucky says. “The books you had there. Half-torn and yellow and dog-eared, all of ‘em.”

 Steve smiles. “They were second-hand and read a million times each, what did you expect?”

 “We should get one of those, fill it with used books,” Bucky says.

 Steve quirks an eyebrow. “Used books.”

 “I like old things,” Bucky says softly. “They’ve got history. They mean something. They meant something to someone once, they can mean something to someone again. Us.”

 Steve suppresses a sigh and isn’t sure if Bucky realizes or is genuinely oblivious to the implication of his words.

 They hadn’t really discussed it, living together. It had just come naturally; well, _sort of_. Natasha had barged in Steve’s room in the hospital, making a dozed off curled-up Bucky jump up in his customary chair. Steve had to suppress a smile at the dazed look on his face and his frantic efforts to blink away the hairs that had latched onto his eyelashes.

 Natasha had planted her palms on the footboard of Steve’s bed and had asked about Steve’s plans for the future.

 Steve had licked his lips, his pulse speeding up at what he was about to say – at what he technically had _no right_ to say, considering he hadn’t discussed it with the person most closely concerned.

 “Well,” he’d replied slowly, looking at Bucky hesitantly, hoping for some sign of confirmation, “we should find some place to live, first. Now that we’re more or less legally allowed back in the country.”

 Bucky had given him a small nod.

 “And then, we’ll just –” Steve had shrugged – “make it up as we go.”

 A few minutes later, Tony had trudged in.

 He had hovered awkwardly at the door for a few minutes, and then managed to blurt out, “If you want, you can come stay at the compound till you find a place. There’s enough room for everyone.”

 He’d nodded then, looking accomplished.

 He had left with an awkward, “So that’s that.”

 Steve had accepted the offer, graceless as it had been. The compound was familiar, safe, and more importantly, it was an olive branch of sorts. Fighting alongside someone for the planet’s survival makes you put aside past differences, at least temporarily, and while Tony and Steve weren’t quite friends again, while Tony didn’t quite address Bucky directly, ever, and hardly looked him in the eye, he also wasn’t trying to strangle him, which counted as progress. Granted, it was miniscule, but it was progress all the same.

 Steve hadn’t been sure if that was what Bucky truly wanted – finding a house, living together. He hadn’t been sure if Bucky meant to stay, and if so for how long. He’d put off asking for days. He did want Bucky to be happy, whatever that meant, whether he wanted to stick around, or be off on his own, or a mix of the two, and he’d try to be happy for him whatever his choice; but he was also exhausted and vulnerable and frayed and couldn’t take the potential disappointment of Bucky wanting to leave – not then, not really. Maybe when he would get out of the hospital, he’d told himself, but he knew he was lying.

 They’d barely moved into Tony’s compound when Bucky had jumped in and saved him from the trouble. He’d been dawdling on a laptop for at least two hours, comfortably sprawled on Steve’s bed, mercilessly leaving Steve to get comfortable on a much smaller couch. Out of nowhere, he’d raised his head, brow furrowed, and had rasped, “We’ll have to find something on the top floors. It’s safer.”

 And then he had started showing Steve his collection of pictures with furniture and gadgets that they could – _should_ get for their new house, and Steve’s heart had settled with relief.

 “D’you think Stark will mind if I discreetly borrow his laptop for eternity?” Bucky asks now, tucking strands of stray hair behind his ear. “It’s just, I’ve grown attached to it. I like it.”

 Steve suppresses a pleased hum at the thought of Bucky considering something his own, wanting to keep something for himself instead of living just to survive, ready to bold at any minute like he did in Bucharest or wherever he was before that.

  _Where are his notebooks anyway?_ Steve makes a mental note to ask someone.

 Bucky continues, “And you’ll have to get one of your own, I’m not sharing.”

 Steve smiles at his glass.

 “I found a mug that’s shaped like the Hulk’s fist,” Bucky rambles on. “Online. We need it,” he remarks, his sober expression more suitable to discussing world politics or earth’s precarious climate than drinking utensils. “Really, with all that’s happened, there’ll be lots of superhero merch out there, and I think we’ll have to get it all. Hawkeye t-shirts...” He tries to catch Steve’s eye – “And that Asgardian hammer would make a good bookend. And you know what else we need?” he ploughs on. “We need a waffle maker. Steve, I’ve decided, we can’t live without it. Hey,” he says, gently touching Steve’s shoulder with his new metal arm. “Still with me?”

 There’s some sort of muscle memory in Bucky that attunes him to Steve’s moods and feelings – which is quite helpful, really, when you’re dealing with Steve Rogers, Ambassador of Repressed Emotion. So Bucky remembers that sometimes Steve gets lost in his head, in thoughts of what should have been, what should be, and he knows Steve still feels bad for the mishaps and mistakes in what the press now affectionately calls “The Infinity War,” for the miscalculations and the casualties and the loss.

 He knows Steve tends to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders so that no one else will have to.

 Bucky thinks that’s unfair, which is why he is currently rambling in an attempt to get Steve’s mind off of what is making him act so subdued, defeated, mooning over a glass of whiskey that he’s barely drunk.

 And the things he’s rambling about, they’re actually personal. In no other circumstance would Bucky admit that, for once, he wants to choose and own objects and furniture not necessarily for practical value but because they look nice or are too ridiculous to ignore, things that he can like, that he’ll keep around. That now that he owns himself, he also wants to own things _for_ himself.

 But this is Steve, and before attaching himself to Stark’s laptop, before wanting to get attached to mugs and waffle makers and something called an avocado hugger, he got attached to a person; he got attached to him in the 20s and then again on the 21st century, and by now he’s pretty sure he’d get attached to him in any century, in any planet or universe. Steve perks up when Bucky opens up, so that’s what Bucky is doing. It’s supposed to be good for the soul anyway, or so Sam the Wise says.

 “I’m drawing the line at walk-in closets,” Steve says.

 Bucky laughs softly and Steve basks in the sound. His heart is suddenly filled with so much gratitude for this moment that he almost throws himself on Bucky, because frankly he just wants to _be_ with him, still, always, and he’s already been staring at Bucky’s lips for a second too long when slow steps echo in the quiet room.

 Steve and Bucky turn and stare at Tony, who, as per usual, hovers in the distance. He is about to speak, opens his mouth even. His eyes settle on Bucky, torn, assessing; he seems to rethink his words, decide against them, and leaves.

 Bucky bites the inside of his lip, his mouth curling in bitter amusement.

 Steve eyes him with concern. “He’ll come around.”

 Bucky looks up at him.

 “He’ll – you’ve already worked together, fought together, that – that binds people, somehow,” Steve says. “He just needs time.”

 He doesn’t know if it’s true; he wants it to be.

 “’S okay,” Bucky says, shrugging. “He’s not – he can’t do differently, I changed his life. And still he lets me stay here, so.”

 He smiles the sad smile – took him long enough – and as he reaches for Steve’s whiskey, it looks like there’s a hundred different emotions layered under that expression, under the fall of his mouth when he thinks Steve’s stopped looking. 

 Steve feels he should say something. ‘I changed his life’ – what does that even mean? He knows Bucky will never be able to let go of the guilt; Steve just wants to make sure it’s not misplaced, that it’s not too harsh, too unforgiving.

 But the thing is. Steve is too tired, and Bucky's being nice to him, and tomorrow they'll be looking for a place in Brooklyn – even if it's hipster now – Bucky seems to favor the idea of skinny jeans and oversized sweaters an alarming amount  – and they’ll be getting a waffle maker, and maybe they’ll get a fern, or a cat, or maybe not, but the point is they can do whatever the hell they want and not answer to anyone; and Bucky’s eyes are calm, and he’s drumming his fingers on the bar, humming a tune that sounds like a 40s song – and Steve doesn’t want to disturb that. He doesn’t want to disturb the softness that’s settled on Bucky’s features, doesn’t want to risk his lightened mood, their renewed kinship and proximity, the openness that’s starting to reemerge, doesn’t want to mar it with words, not now.

 So Steve says nothing, even though part of him nags that he should. _That_ part insists Bucky needs to talk, that Steve should encourage him, prompt him, that Steve should – _must_ make himself more available.

 But Steve is always there, always available, and Bucky should know that – somehow. Steve justifies himself like so, and leaves it at that.

 

~ ~ ~

 

 They’ve reached a state of near normalcy.

 Steve, itchy under his newly-acquired ‘hip’ knit sweater, ponders the ripeness of the avocadoes before him. Bucky, huddled in a scarf too chunky for any sane person and with his metal hand cocooned in an equally chunky glove, contemplates the freshness of the dragon fruits.

 They never eat the dragon fruits anyway; Bucky just likes to keep fancy stuff around the house.

 But they’ve reached near normalcy, and that’s what matters. Their cozy apartment in, indeed, Brooklyn is an eclectic mix of modern and vintage, an assortment of furniture and items that no decorator in their right mind would ever combine – but it is home, and more importantly it _feels_ like home, and it constantly smells of cookies because Bucky sprays it regularly to keep it that way; “It’s _cozy_ , Steve, it’s the smell of domesticity. For fuck’s sake, have you no soul?”

 They get calls to do the hero’s work. They work for causes they deem fit, sometimes together, sometimes separately, sometimes teaming up with other ex/unofficial Avengers. It’s part of who they are – fighting the good fight – and there’s no use denying it. Steve has heroism running in his veins, and Bucky will be forever trying to atone and protect. They have the skills; they might as well put them to good use.

 They order take-out more often than they’d care to admit, but sometimes, when the mood strikes just right, Bucky will experiment with all types of brownies, and Steve will embark on his never-ending quest of finding the quintessential apple pie.

 His idea of quintessence comes from the days of yore, and as such it is likely impossible to achieve. At least now he’s a pro at peeling, coring and halving apples.

 Netflix is never chill, and usually results in scuffles over what is worth watching and what has been spawned in the depths of hell. Sometimes it results in friendly wrestling on the floor, which would be even friendlier if Steve would just _stop_ pulling Bucky’s hair – “That’s cheating and a shitty thing to do, goddammit!”

 Bucky listens to a lot of music, the volume always turned up inappropriately high. He likes The Killers and New Division. Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes and switches to the funk and jazz music Sam has ingrained in his brain. Neither of them minds.

 Occasionally, when Bucky is feeling particularly carefree, he sings alongside the music, random lyrics in off-key notes, to annoy Steve. When he’s feeling _exceptionally_ carefree, he sneaks behind Steve and screams the lyrics into his ear. Steve bats him away, and sometimes Bucky grabs his hand and takes him for a spin; it’s clumsy and uncoordinated – Steve’s fault, really, because God help anyone who dares to imply James Buchanan Barnes is an uncoordinated and clumsy dancer. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough to brighten Steve’s mood for the rest of the day.

 One time, Steve takes Bucky by surprise; he grabs his hand before Bucky grabs his, and manages to tackle him on the kitchen floor. He notices the brownie batter Bucky has been preparing, still in its bowl, and without thinking, he seizes a fistful and proceeds to smear it all over Bucky’s face. For one long second, Bucky goes still and Steve thinks he might strangle him, but then Bucky giggles – he honest to God giggles, the way he used to on crowded dance floors and creaking fire escapes and on Coney Island pier – and upturns the rest of the bowl’s contents onto Steve’s freshly washed hair.

 It’s familiar; it’s comfortable; it’s home.

 They seamlessly fall back to some of the old patterns and effortlessly create new ones.

 It’s easier than expected.

 But it’s not always easy.

 Sometimes Steve is too angry and righteous for his own good, and Bucky wants to pick a fight with him, smack him upside the neck for being reckless and stubborn and so damn dramatic. Sometimes Bucky gets too silent and retreats into himself, raw against the world, and Steve wants to shake him until he realizes how strong and resilient and fucking good he is. And when the mood passes, they exchange shifty looks and small incredulous laughs at the ridiculousness and impossibility and normalcy of it all.

 Steve knows Bucky’s nightmares better than he knows his own; he knows how sometimes he cries in his sleep, the way he’d never allow himself to do if he were awake, and he knows how he continues to whimper and sometimes mutter in Russian until he’s conscious enough to get his bearings. He knows that on nights like these, Bucky will allow Steve to sleep with him, the warmth and familiarity of his body making Bucky feel safe.

 Bucky knows, too, that during Steve’s bouts of insomnia, the only thing that helps him fall asleep instead of pulling all-nighters is sleeping next to Bucky. And Steve is thankful that Bucky allows this too – only, the word Bucky would use wouldn’t be “allow” but rather “welcome,” “need,” “crave,” even if Steve doesn’t know that. And when Steve edges in Bucky’s bed, next to Bucky’s sleeping form, Bucky shifts and flutters his eyelids, and always reaches for Steve’s hand. He pulls it close to his chest, so that Steve can feel his even, deep breaths, so that he can follow the rhythm and lull himself to sleep. It works faultlessly.

 Sometimes they huddle a little too close on the couch. Sometimes a touch is one second too long. Sometimes Bucky feels accommodating enough to massage Steve’s shoulders, and Steve melts into the touch and can’t pull back his moans – doesn’t care to. Sometimes Steve strokes Bucky’s hair, tugging it just so, and he discovers that this makes Bucky practically purr under his fingers. Sometimes Bucky wears Steve’s sweatpants or sweaters without comment, and sometimes Steve traces patterns on Bucky’s arms as Bucky’s watching TV, staring at his best friend’s face and marveling at the fact that he’s there and he’s real and he’s warm and a breath’s kiss away.

 Sometimes Steve drags Bucky away from people who attempt to flirt with him, and sometimes Bucky narrows his eyes ominously at people who try to make a pass at Steve.

 For all intents and purposes, they act like a married couple. Except that they’re not married, and they’re not a couple.

 Bucky shifts from his stand in the grocery aisle, looks to his left and then away, his lips flattening in a tight line.

 Steve follows his line of vision. There’s a young woman there, dressed in loose-fitting clothes, a baseball cap covering her hair. She’s cradling a bottle of milk and stands frozen still as she unabashedly stares at Bucky, her eyes wide and intense.

 Steve clears his throat as Bucky shoves dragon fruits into a paper bag.

 “What else?” Steve asks.

 “You’ve got the list, don’t you?” Bucky says, and it comes out rough, edgy.

 Steve pries the list out of his jacket pocket. They go through the aisles, picking up coffee and candy and frozen dinners, with the young woman always trailing after them, her eyes trained on Bucky. Steve glances at Bucky for some hint at what to do, but Bucky studiously ignores her –and Steve – although the tension on his face is evident.

 They lose her, at some point. They pay for their things and exit the grocery store, and less than a block away, there she is, leaning against the wall, hands in pockets, waiting.

 Bucky fixes his eyes on hers, the woman fixes her eyes on him, and Steve doesn’t know if they know each other, if she’s a threat or something else. He is about to ask when she detaches herself from the wall and takes a hesitant step towards them.

 “Hey,” she says flatly.

 When Bucky doesn’t reply, she lifts up her chin and repeats, “Hey.”

 “Hey,” Bucky forces.

 The woman eyes Steve dourly and her intention is clear; _scram_.

 “You don’t know me –” she turns to Bucky – “But I know you.”

 Bucky shifts uneasily. He passes Steve his grocery bags.

 “Here, can you wait for a sec?” he says, thin lines creasing his forehead.

 Steve can’t, because he wants to know what’s going on, but he takes the bags and retreats a few feet away. He shoves his hands in his pockets, backs up against the wall and waits. He will be able to hear every word, and Bucky knows this, but the girl doesn’t. Steve assumes Bucky is giving her a sense of privacy.

 The girl smacks her lips. “I dream of you,” she says, serious, defiant. “I saw you. I know…” She heaves a deep sigh. “I know they said it’s okay now, I know they said you were brainwashed or mind controlled or whatever, but –” she shrugs helplessly – “I was five, and I saw the Winter Soldier kill my father, and he had your face, so. For all I care, he’s you. You’re him. You’re the same thing.”

 She’s short and slim and small, but somehow she towers over Bucky, who’s standing still, focused, grim.

 “He was no one important,” she says, her voice breaking. “I guess you didn’t really come for him, he just happened to be on the way. Your way. But I was hidden, and I saw you. Your face. No expression –” she shrugs again – “And I saw _his_ face, and he was so scared. So scared.” She shakes her head. “No one should have to see that. I know they say it wasn’t your fault, and I don’t... Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. It’s not that I want revenge, or I wish for your death, ‘cause I don’t… But you haunt my dreams. You’ve done so for fifteen years now.”

 She pauses, averts her eyes.

 “I wonder if it’ll ever stop.” She turns to stare at Bucky. “I wish it’d stop.”

 “I wish things had been different,” Bucky says hoarsely.

 The girl eyes him appraisingly. “Me too,” she says. “But you still make me wake up panting and sweating and wanting to tear my skin off.”

 She’s not trying to be mean, she’s just stating facts. Bucky wants to apologize until she can forgive him, but that’s not how forgiveness works. There’s nothing he can say to make this better. He knows; he’s tried before, with different people, different victims. The apologies always fall short.

 “I’m sorry you’ve suffered,” he says instead.

 She nods. “Yeah. I guess,” she says, “I guess I just thought maybe I’d get a sense of closure.”

 “That’d be good,” Bucky says quietly, and wishes he could do more; give her the closure she needs, make it easier for her; make it better.

 “That’d be good,” she echoes. She stares at him, and when she shakes her head, she looks sad. “You’ve a lot to pay back to the world. I don’t know how you can live up to it.”

 Bucky’s lips part slightly, but she doesn’t want to hear his response. She raises her hand in a salute, turns on her heels, and veers left, into a side alley, away from Bucky and his heartbreak.

 Bucky draws a deep breath and stares at the asphalt, clenching and unclenching his fingers as he tries to get himself together. When a minute’s up, he shakes his head to clear his mind, shoves his hands in his pockets, and walks to Steve.

 Steve straightens up. “That was harsh,” he says, not even trying to pretend he wasn’t listening. 

 “It was fair,” Bucky says, shrugging. “She was right.”

 Steve studies him. “She wasn’t wrong,” he agrees.

 Bucky is grateful that Steve isn’t going for sugarcoating. They’re way past that, these days.

 “But it was another lifetime,” Steve points out gently.

 Bucky will give him that. He presses his lips into a thin line and shifts awkwardly.

 “I don’t remember him,” he says eventually, his expression pained. “I don’t know who her father was, or when. I don’t remember all of them. Never did.” He looks at Steve. “It’s nothing to do with –” he gestures at his head – “it’d just be impossible to remember everyone. Like I can’t remember – I don’t even know, never even saw their faces – all of the soldiers we killed in the war.” He exhales a shaky breath. “I remember the missions. The targets, the main players, but the others? I didn’t even care to see their faces. They were –” he shakes his head, troubled – “nuisances, obstacles to be obliterated.”

 Steve could say it wasn’t him; that he didn’t have a choice, that he wasn’t in control – and all these _are_ true. But Bucky’s heard this a million times, and he knows this, and it still doesn’t make a difference. He still has to live with the aftermath, with everything he holds himself accountable for.

 So instead, Steve opts for something different.

 He takes a step closer, rests his hands on Bucky’s arms to get his attention.

 “Some day,” he says, “when we’re old, and we’re sitting in our balcony next to our begonias, drinking chamomile and eating sugar-free jelly, you’ll be telling me how you once used to be the most unwittingly badass ghost story ever invented, and how you fuckin’ turned it around; gave them the flip and burned their asses down and showed ‘em what’s what.”

 Bucky is smiling; it’s small and reluctant but it’s there, so Steve continues.

 “And you’ll be telling me how you didn’t stop with them, oh no, not James fucking Barnes, no sir, you went on to save the world a million times over. You’ll be saying, _‘I might’ve burned the world once, but I rebuilt it more times than the earth itself cares to count. The fuckin’ earth owes me, pal!’_ You’ll be telling me, ‘ _I, sir, fought against them fuckin’ aliens_.’”

 It’s a perfect imitation of Bucky’s long-vanished Brooklyn drawl. Bucky lets out an involuntary wet chuckle and wipes his nose.

 “You were there,” Bucky rasps in a low voice, blinking away the wetness in his eyes.

 “And I’ll be telling you,” Steve concedes with a slight nod, squeezing Bucky’s arms gently, “‘ _I was there, you numskull_ ,’” he says in an old man’s voice. “We’ll both be half-senile, so, you know. We’ll get confused, occasionally. And you will be saying – ‘ _Oh righ’. You were. How did that work out for you, again? One day in the ER and a week in a hospital bed, you say? Hmmmmm’._ ”

 Bucky tilts his head back and laughs, surprising himself; his eyes shine with unshed tears. “I ain’t eating sugar-free anything,” he remarks.

 “Well…” Steve says, dragging out the word, faking an apologetic look, “sugar levels, cholesterol, in your old age – these things can kill ya.”

 “Can we even get old?” Bucky asks softly, the unexpected mirth slowly vanishing from his face.

 Steve tilts his head, pouts his lips. “If we can’t, well – we’ll pretend. We’ll put on wigs and fake the voices.”

 Bucky licks his lips, gives Steve a sideway look. He rests his forehead against Steve’s shoulder and Steve rubs his back.

 “What would I do without you,” Bucky murmurs, his voice muffled.

 The mere mention of a separation fills Steve with dread.

 He also feels a pang of bitterness that compels him to say, “Go on with your life. You already did it once.”

 Bucky looks up at him, his face earnest. “Yeah, but I mean. It was survival, not living. And I was finding myself, and then I was in denial of how much I was missing your stupid face, so it’s not exactly –”

 They’re the only people around, the street being otherwise empty, and Bucky’s so close he’s practically breathing on Steve, and he’s rambling about why he would merely survive and not really live without him – and Steve doesn’t know if this is the right moment but it _feels_ like the right moment, or maybe it’s just another instance of him losing all sense of self-control in Bucky’s presence, but –

 He leans his head in one swift motion and brushes his lips on Bucky’s, cutting him off.

 Bucky gazes at him. He looks soft, tender. He hums under his breath.

 “Yeah?” Steve asks.

 “Yeah,” Bucky says.

 And then –

 Then he sighs and smiles the sad smile. That – fucking – sad – smile.

 Steve seethes.

  _Why? Why now?_ If it’s ‘yeah’ – and in Steve’s head it sounds like a much exaggerated “YUH HUH!” – then why now?

 And yes, the truth is they never prodded about the things that mattered, never talked about them without one of them booking it or cracking a joke or pleading the fifth, ever – weren’t doing so before the war, had danced around subjects that mattered ever since, relying on looks, and touches and intentions and just sheer hope that the other would be able to understand. That’s what they always did – what they always _do_.

 But this is not the 40s, and it is not a quinjet on its way to Siberia, it’s not Wakanda or an intergalactic war, and they’ve both changed – they know that, they’ve _acknowledged_ that – so, goddammit, Steve thinks, they might as well live up to it.

 “The _hell_ is the matter now?” Steve asks, more exasperated than he’d meant.

 Bucky jerks, startled. “What?”

 “You’re doing the sad smile!”

 “…The what?” – Bucky blinks, nonplussed.

 “The sad smile!” Steve insists, gesticulating towards the general area of Bucky’s face. “You know, that fake smile you do when you want to be strong for people and not bleed on them? When you don’t want to show them how much it hurts? The _sad_ smile, ‘cause it’s actually very, very sad and very, very painful to watch?”

 Bucky looks genuinely surprised. “I didn’t –” he shakes his head, incredulous – “You’ve noticed that?”

 Steve raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

 Bucky rubs his face, frowns sourly. “Well, hell. There goes my 90-year façade.”

 “That was a lost battle to begin with,” Steve says. He lightly bumps Bucky’s chest. “What’s wrong?”

 “No, it’s just – ” Bucky swallows – “I keep thinkin’, sometimes; I’ve gone through things, you’ve gone through things, and we’ve gone through things together, we deal with them, we’ve already come out to the other side so many times… Not undamaged, yeah, but alive. Functional.” He looks up at Steve, sincere, vulnerable. “And together, surprisingly. And then I think for a moment that maybe we got a break? Maybe we can be okay for a while?”

 “We are,” Steve breathes. “At least I am. For a while,” he adds, because the break never lasts long, and there’s no point pretending otherwise.

 “Right,” Bucky agrees. “But then things like this happen – and rightly so, because it’s not like I get a clean slate – no one does – and then –” he shrugs. “Sometimes I just – it feels like drowning in – in the past.”

 “I know,” Steve says. “I’ve seen it. I _know_ you – don’t think just because I keep my mouth shut I don’t.”

 “Right.” Bucky smirks. “the all-knowing Steve Rogers.”

 “I’m trying to respect you, you ass!” Steve retorts lightly. “But the thing is,” he says, closing what little space remains between them, “we’ve faced it. We’ve faced everything, we’ve dealt, we deal, and sometimes it’s not so bad. It’s good. And whatever happens in the future, we’ll deal with that too.” He puts his hands on Bucky’s neck, brings his forehead on Bucky’s own. “Together.”

 Bucky purses his lips and gives a small nod. “Okay,” he breathes. “But when we’re old an’ cranky, I _seriously_ ain’t gonna take shit from you on sugar-free food,” he says in his Brooklyn accent.

 “Yeah, say that when I’ll be stuffing broccoli inside your morning muffins –” Steve sniggers.

 “Is that the little green tree-like things?”

 Bucky is acting all confused, and he’s scrunching his nose as he pretends to be thinking; small crinkles are forming at the edges of his eyes, and stray hairs have found their way out of his bun and have latched themselves on Bucky’s eyelashes, making him blink repeatedly– and Steve finds all this too much and once again can’t restrain himself.

 He presses his lips on Bucky’s, a light but firm quick kiss.

 “Yeah?” he asks again, just to make sure.

 Bucky raises his arms in exasperation. “Yeah, yes, of course _yeah_ ,” he says matter-of-factly. “It’s only ninety years too late, I mean, we’ve practically redefined the notion of slow burn, we’ve beat _Love in the Time of Cholera_ by a thousand miles, but yeah, sure, yeah.”

 Steve cocks an eyebrow. “Slow burn?”

 “I read things,” Bucky says defiantly. “I love the internet.” Then he sobers up. “I mean, yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s – it’s you. It’s always been you.”

 “Good,” Steve says, nodding. “Likewise.”

 He’s licking his lips and Bucky has to tear his eyes away.

 “Can we go home now?” Bucky says. “We’ve got some groceries that need tendin’ and, shit, Rogers, seriously, this was the worst place you could’ve picked for this conversation.”

 “I can think of worse,” Steve says dismissively, picking up grocery bags.

 “Of course you can, punk,” Bucky says, and grins.

 Steve watches the clouds drift through the sky, and Bucky’s humming a tune under his breath. When Steve is sure no one is watching, he leans in and rubs his nose against Bucky’s, making him giggle; when Bucky’s sure it won’t end in a disaster, he trips Steve’s feet and stops his fall with his body. In the entrance of their building, they clasp hands, and in the elevator they kiss, and Steve discovers that Bucky is unexpectedly adept at lip biting while Bucky discovers that Steve smiling through their kisses brings to him a whole new level of joy. In their living room they make out, and in Steve’s bedroom they break the bed. Steve is beaming and Bucky is laughing, and for a while, everything is at peace with the world.

 


End file.
